November 29, 2006

Anyone who isn’t black or over 96 years of age and claims to love jazz is a fucking liar. A poser. A phony.

I pity the single, 20- or 30-something white guy who brings his “date” home and fires up the fucking Miles Davis CD to show his sophistication. Who the fuck are you kidding?

Hey, dipshit, she’d rather listen to the fucking Black Eyed Peas. Even the fucking Oakridge Boys.

And she just sits there and sips her shitty merlot (90 points according to BevMo!) and nods her head for an hour and a half to songs that seem to have neither a beginning nor an end. It’s just raping her eardrums and she’s smiling and nodding her head like a fucking lemming.

“This is so nice.”

Sure it is.

Don’t tell me about how Jazz is the foundation for rock. I don’t give a shit. It’s fucking boring.

There a couple dozen way-too-long horn solos. There’s the requisite and fucking repetitive bass chords that just DROP into the fucking song for no apparent reason and add nothing to the composition other than to remind you that there’s a guy with virtually no musical talent who was willing to spend a shit load of money to stand upright holding a fucking tree-sized instrument.

And don’t forget the constant droning of the retard rat-a-tat-tatting the fucking cymbals.

November 08, 2006

Previously, I’ve covered the whole “so you’re on Death Row and it’s time for your final meal, what are you going to eat?” ice-breaker. I’m sticking with pizza.

If you’re the type who thinks that question is unfair and vexing, it’s time to examine the ever-popular “so you’re on a deserted island and can only take one album with you for the rest of eternity” query. Forget a final meal you’ll barely taste and surely unload within seconds of taking the needle.

We’re talking about the last and only connection you’ll have with humanity. It’s the last thing you’ll have to cling to that reminds you of the life you led before you were forced to embrace a volleyball as your only friend, confidante and lover.

And, no, you can’t take your fucking iPod. One album. Period.

Many people my age immediately jump on the classics. Especially the double albums because you’re going to want the most bang for your buck. We’re talking about the rest of your life here. Any box set or double album from Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones immediately come to mind. Those are obvious choices. And not necessarily bad ones. Well, the Stones are. But you get my drift.

You have to keep in mind that I’m in my early 30s so the depth and breadth of my musical interests is fairly broad in terms of years but not nearly as eclectic as many people 10 or even 15 years younger.

As a little kid, my parents force-fed me way too much of The Beatles and Cream and The Who and even fucking ABBA. In retrospect, ABBA wasn’t so bad. Who doesn’t know the chorus to “Dancing Queen?” Oh fuck, if I had a nickel for every time I had to listen to Fleetwood Fucking Mac. I fucking hate Fleetwood Mac. So much.

For better or worse, I’m pretty much a devotee and product of the music and culture of the 1980s. Like many people near my age and slightly older, I was glued to my television on Aug. 1, 1981 when this thing called MTV made its debuted.

Even by early-1980s standards, the hype for this thing was impressive. The MTV buzz was palpable. Suffice it to say, there’s no way to overstate the importance of MTV for my generation. It was the end-all, be-all of the universe for kids my age. The weekly Video Countdown show was must-see TV long before that cunt Jennifer Aniston ever wiggled into a training bra.

Anyway, music is by far the most powerful memory-inducing elixir ever invented. Anyone with functioning ear drums can pinpoint the most mundane, irrelevant or seminal events of their lives after just a few bars of a song.

In fact, I would argue that most of us listen to music not to hear the lyrics or the guitar riffs or the drum lines of a particular song but rather to evoke the memories of the events, people and periods of our lives that we hold so dear.

I lost my virginity on a hardwood floor in a rundown apartment to Peter Gabriel’s “Red Rain.” And, yes, it was raining that night. Some 15 years later, while sharing this tidbit, I learned that a good friend of mine had anal sex for the first time while listening to Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.” The kicker to that story is that he bound his girlfriend’s hands with some sort of rope or chord for the occasion. No matter how you slice it, that’s an impressive anal debut. If it’s true.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold out long enough to make it to “Sledgehammer.” Tell me that wouldn’t have been perfect! And then I could have dismounted, had another Mickey’s Big Mouth, and resumed in time for “Big Time.” But because of my friend’s story, Gabriel’s “So” album is out. It’s forever tainted. Next.

The next most obvious contender is Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.” I hadn’t listened to this album for at least five years until about a week ago. I was amazed that I still remembered each and every song in order as well as all the lyrics, including “Vera.” Lots of tracks and not a bad one on the whole fucking album.

It consumed much of my final year or two in high school, the glorious summer between high school and college and good chunk of my collegiate years. Anyone who has ever gone to college will tell you that those were the best years of their lives and “The Wall” was the soundtrack of my frenzied and controversial collegiate experience.

But as great as that album is, it doesn’t make it to my island because too many of the songs sound the same. Trust me. I know they’re all very different. But on the whole, day after day (and night after night), I’d get tired of this one. Unless I lucked out and washed up on an island with fields of marijuana and mushrooms. And a lighter. And a lava lamp. Then it would be a no-brainer.

The other problem would be that hearing “The Wall” would make me yearn for other Floyd songs from “Wish You Were Here” and “The Dark Side of the Moon” and even “Animals.” I couldn’t handle that sorrow. Sad to say, but…next.

It occurs to me that there might be some very practical reasons for wanting to hear a woman’s voice as I wasted away on this fucking island.

You can bet that by Day Two, I would have whipped up some kind of a coconut- and sand-based lotion, gathered a handful of mop-up-sized palm leaves and located a smooth, sloped rock on which I could recline and pleasure myself to the sounds of the waves breaking on the shore.

But I’d need more. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time” album would be a nice fit. At least for a few months. Forget her voice. It’s the video, Baby. Of course you remember. She was 17, had braided pigtails and shimmied around in that little Catholic schoolgirl outfit.

That song reminds me of the time I went to a fast-food restaurant on Halloween in about 1999 and saw three girls, maybe 14 or 15 years old at the most, all dressed up as Britney from that video. I think I speak for all men when I say that this is exactly the type of situation that tests us all. Let’s just say they were either completely oblivious or (more likely) completely aware of what they were doing to every man in the restaurant.

They made absolutely no effort to cross their legs nor keep their knees together throughout the entire meal. These were short skirts. And their breast meats were falling out of their white, button-up dress shirts tied around their midsections. It was the most difficult lunch I’ve ever experienced. And it’s also why that album is on my short list.

What? That beats the shit out of the Joan Jett in the black-and-white “I Love Rock N’ Roll” video. A case could be made for “Heart” but neither Ann or Nancy Wilson will get me where I need to get. And that Amy Lee from Evanescence scares the shit out of me.

Alanis Morissette’s “Jagged Little Pill” sold 30 million copies which I’m pretty sure is the all-time record for a female recording artist. And she’s pretty hot. But there are two problems: First, she’s Canadian. Second, I found her most attractive when she was on that TV show “You Can’t Do That On Television.” Every time she got slimed, so did I.

Just kidding.

I’m scared I might really regret not going with a female album on the island, but I just can’t pull the trigger. Plus, I don’t need to hear “Ironic” ever again. Especially on a deserted island. Next.

I could go on and on and on about a good 20 or 30 albums that should definitely be in the discussion. But I know such an examination would take forever and further expose me as both a revolting pervert and a drug-addled narcissist.

At the end of the day, I think I have to go with Guns N’ Roses “Live Era ’87-’93.” I’d say “Appetite For Destruction” but then I’d miss out on “Pretty Tied Up” and “November Rain” and “Don’t Cry” and “Used to Love Her” and a handful of other classics.

Best of all, this album is live. That Axl and the boys actually showed up and performed at enough concerts to make this double live album is a miracle in itself. On half of the songs, Axl sounds like shit but I don’t mind that. That makes it even better in some ways.

Plus, you get to hear the crowd reaction. That would be crucial in picking out any album for all of eternity. I’d need to experience the music and that’s just something that doesn’t come across in a studio album that’s been digitally remastered to all fuck until all the flaws and soul and character of the music have been forever erased.

You get almost all of “Appetite,” arguably the greatest hard rock album ever made, and even a couple covers thrown in for the fuck of it.

Now I just need to convince Britney to wear Slash’s Top Hat in her next video.